


company

by thisissirius



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Apocalypse, M/M, No character death!, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisissirius/pseuds/thisissirius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that Patrick has the time to look, he can see a torn and tattered <i>Jets</i> backpack on Jonny’s shoulder - god, he’s from <i>Canada</i> - and his clothes are blood-spattered. “He followed me from some dude’s house a couple of months ago. Can’t shake him.”</p><p>Patrick’s not fooled; he knows what it’s like to be desperate for company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	company

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ahestele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahestele/gifts).



> this was a pinch hit and i'm so glad i got to write for it! i've been meaning to work on an apocafic forever and this was the perfect thing! it's terribly short and i apologise for that, but i hope it's everything you wanted <3
> 
> thank you to celli and hazel, who both read this over and helped beat it into shape. i really appreciate it BOTH OF YOU. ♥
> 
>  **warnings;** for light violence and zombies. 
> 
> it's also worth noting that this is au in that jonny and patrick play hockey, but they've never played each other or with each other.

There’s a sound outside. 

Patrick’s hiding in a barn, somewhat predictable in a zombie apocalypse, but he’s not above cliches when he’s trying to stay alive. There’s the rain, a hard pattering on the wooden roof and walls that’s been keeping Patrick up for two days, but this sound is different. It’s a scuffling, accompanied by a murmuring, and Patrick grabs for his gun, fingers shaking. He’s tried everything to get his hands to stop, but he’s resigned to that never happening. He’s doing his best; he knows where to hide to keep the zombies - _jesus_ \- from detecting him, and he knows how long to stay in one place. It’s been trial and error, and he has the scars to prove it. 

The murmuring tapers off, but then the door of the barn is thrown open. Patrick peers around the bales. It’s not a zombie; a guy, late teens at best and barely older than Patrick, stumbles into the barn and a shaggy dog follows in after. Patrick holds his tongue, fingers sliding over the gun. The guy shuts the door again and then shakes out his clothes a little, rain water dripping onto the hay at his feet. 

“Hey,” the guy says, bending down to talk to the dog. He cups its face and strokes its head a little. Patrick gets a good look at his face as he steps back a little. He’s attractive, the kind of guy Patrick probably would have gone for, but it’s not that makes him step out of the shadows. It’s the look on the guy’s face as he caresses the dog’s head, like it’s the only thing in the world he has, and Patrick knows that feeling, understands. 

“Uh,” he says, and then immediately recoils as the guy’s gun snaps up. Patrick hasn’t been on the end of a gun before, and he’s speechless, feels his fingers lock against his own shotgun. “Please, I-”

The guy narrows his eyes, but he isn’t shooting. “Who the fuck are you?”

Patrick shifts, holding up his hands, though he’s ready to shoot and run if he needs to. “I’m like you.”

“Nobody’s like me,” the guy says, like he’s the only human left on the planet. Excuse him, Patrick is still alive. 

Stepping fully into the light, Patrick lets the guy see him. His dog, a shaggy mess of tan fur, sniffs around Patrick’s legs and feet and then barks once. Patrick thinks he’s probably just imagining it, but the guy relaxes an inch. 

“What’s your name?”

“What’s _your_ name?” Patrick counters, tilting his chin. He might be shit-scared, but he’s not afraid of _humans_. The guy’s lip twitches, but then schools his expression, intense and serious once more. 

There’s a long silence. It’s like a standoff in one of the westerns Patrick’s grandpa liked so much. He clenches his jaw, trying not to think about that, and focuses back on the guy. 

“Jonny.”

“Patrick,” Patrick says, relaxing the hand with the gun. “Are there any-”

“I haven’t seen any for two days,” the guy - Jonny - tells him. “That doesn’t mean there aren’t any there.” Dropping his gun to his side, Jonny kicks at some of the hay with his feet. The dog has flopped down onto the floor, nose pointed towards the door. 

“He’s well trained,” Patrick offers. 

Jonny makes a face. Now that Patrick has the time to look, he can see a torn and tattered _Jets_ backpack on Jonny’s shoulder - god, he’s from _Canada_ \- and his clothes are blood-spattered. “He followed me from some dude’s house a couple of months ago. Can’t shake him.”

Patrick’s not fooled; he knows what it’s like to be desperate for company. “You hungry?”

Something shifts on Jonny’s face, but a smile breaks out on his face as Patrick reaches for his bag.

\--- 

“So where are you from?” Patrick asks. He’s stretched out on his back, looking up at the ceiling. He knows better than to ask; it’s easy to get attached, but even easier to lose whatever it is you’re getting attached to - but he does it anyway.

Jonny doesn’t answer for a minute, but when Patrick turns to look at him he shrugs. “The backpack didn’t give it away?”

“Eh,” Patrick wrinkles his nose. “Not everybody has hometown loyalties.”

“I do,” Jonny assures him. “I’m from Winnipeg.”

“Buffalo.” Patrick thinks of his home, his backyard, the sound of his sisters laughing. There’s a stony silence from Jonny that Patrick understands all too well. “I was at a hockey tournament. They took my teammates, my coach. I ran and kept running.”

There’s a long silence. Patrick closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. He falls asleep like that, to the sound of Jonny breathing and the dog’s snuffling.

\--- 

The rain breaks a day later.

“We should move,” Jonny says. 

“We?” Patrick didn’t want to presume, but it makes him feel a little better that he might have-

Jonny nods. “We.”

Grinning, Patrick falls into step alongside Jonny as he shoves open the door of the barn. The dog bounds out in front of them, tail still and ears cocked.

\--- 

A hard shove and Patrick goes down hard. the impact jolts his body and he feels it everywhere, but he immediately rolls out of the way. Jonny smacks a bat into the back of the zombie’s legs and Patrick lifts his gun, fires off two shots. The recoil hits him like it always does, and he has to take a moment to recover, taking Jonny’s proffered hand.

“Move!” Jonny yells, shoving Patrick again. He stumbles a little, but catches himself, and manages to keep pace as Jonny half-pulls him along. He can hear the harsh, scratchy breathing of the zombies and the slap of their bare feet on the concrete. God, it’s a sound he’s never going to be able to get rid of. 

He digs his fingers into the palm of Jonny’s hand and hangs tight.

\--- 

“I can still hear them screaming,” Patrick tells Jonny that night. Jonny’s keeping watch by the door, the dog at his feet. Patrick still calls him _dog_ and Jonny twitches his lips. Patrick’s never seen him smile, and he’s going to do his best to rectify that, but he doesn’t know how. Jonny’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t interrupt. “My teammates. Timmy and I were going to London.”

“Sorry.” 

Patrick shrugs. “I guess hockey isn’t really necessary any more, eh?”

Jonny tugs at one of the straps on his backpack. “Not many things are.”

Dropping his head back against the wall, Patrick runs a hand through the dog’s fur, catching on a tangled mess. They really need to comb it out at some point. 

“Could have made it to the NHL.” 

“Me?” Patrick kicks out with a foot. “Or you?”

“Both of us,” Jonny says. He closes his eyes.

It’s not like Jonny’s ever seen Patrick play, but he appreciates the sentiment. “Yeah well, now we both get to kill zombies.”

\--- 

The dog alerts them to the danger.

The barking wakes Patrick abruptly, and he’s on his feet, gun in hand. “Jonny!”

Jonny rolls over, comes up in a crouch with his gun cocked. 

The door slams open and jesus, _fuck_ , Patrick’s never seen that many and he’s going to -

“Patrick,” Jonny shouts and Patrick’s attention snaps to his face. “We’re getting out of this.”

Patrick doesn’t have time to fire; he’s shooting before Jonny’s even finished talking.

\--- 

There’s blood on Patrick’s arm and he can feel the sting just below his elbow. He swallows thickly, feels like his whole body is on fire and he’s never been more scared in his life. His fingers grip Jonny’s waist as they stumble to safety, an old cabin that’s seen better days. “It hurts.”

“I know,” Jonny grits out. “Not much farther.”

Jonny’s been doing most of the work, dragging Patrick away from danger while he’s unsteady on his feet. Patrick knows he’s lost a lost of blood, can see most of it on his shirt and on Jonny’s jacket. The dog is already sitting on the porch of the cabin, weaving back and forward like he’s desperate for them to get there. 

Patrick puts one foot on the deck and feels his legs give way, sinking into Jonny’s arms as his vision whites out.

\--- 

“- guess we can call him Gretzky, even if that’s a stupid fucking name for a dog-”

\--- 

“-wake up soon, I’m gonna eat all the beans, and you know how much you love them -”

\--- 

“-please wake up soon-”

\--- 

“ _Patrick_.”

Patrick starts awake, hands flailing and pain explodes in the back of his head. He groans, but there are arms already steadying him, one hand in his hair, the other on his chest. 

“Easy,” he hears and it’s _Jonny_. 

“Jonny,” he croaks. He blinks twice, waits for his vision to clear before he can see Jonny in all his unwashed glory. His hair is a mess and there’s still blood on his shirt, but Patrick can’t think about that. He clutches at Jonny’s shirt, buries his face and gasps for breath. “I-”

Jonny shushes him, buries his nose in Patrick’s hair even though both of them are gross. “I’m here.”

There’s a bark from the dog, and Patrick calms his breathing, tries to get a hold on his emotions. “I thought I was gonna-”

“You’re not,” Jonny says. His voice his hard and his tone means Patrick can’t, _won’t_ die, not while Jonny still has breath. It’s been a long time since anyone’s cared about Patrick like that, since anyone’s - “I promise.”

Patrick nods, hides his face again because he’s pretty sure he’s crying.

\--- 

“I love you,” Patrick says, because he thinks Jonny should know, even if he’s not altogether sure what love is. His mom told him he’d know, and even if Patrick’s sisters always said it would come with angels and singing and harps and whatever, he’s pretty sure he’s found it. Nothing says _I love you_ like sharing whatever food you’ve managed to scavenge and fighting zombies together and staying with someone even when they might have been zombified and tried to kill you.

Jonny kisses the corner of his mouth and presses their foreheads together. “I love you.”

The dog - _Gretzky_ , because Patrick might have been semi-conscious but he still remembers - barks, and Patrick grabs a handful of his fur. It’s not like he’s not aware of the danger, of the fact that he almost died and might not have had this, but he’s pretty sure this is the happiest he’s ever going to be.

**Author's Note:**

> "and then the icehogs come barrelling in with exploding hockey sticks and save the day" - celli
> 
> that's how it ends, in case you were wondering. (pirri is the best zombie killer of them all)
> 
> (gretzy dies of old age. the dog, not the hockey player. well. the hockey player too.)


End file.
